


He Turns Me On, But Doesn’t Touch Me

by kreekey



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt, Hallucinogens, Historical References, I Don't Even Know, I just know I used too many commas, Implied John Lennon/Brian Epstein, Insecurity, John is a Mess, John just has a lot of feelings okay?, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Chronological, Not A Fix-It, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Possibly Unrequited Love, Repression, Slow Build, Slurs, Swearing, Unresolved Emotional Tension, and sometimes he even shows it!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kreekey/pseuds/kreekey
Summary: “If John were a homosexual, I would’ve thought he would have made a pass at me in 20 years, wouldn’t you?” - Paul McCartney disputing the claims that Lennon had homosexual affairs, 1988.~Scenes and slices of life in which John desperately tried to hide himself when confronted with these ideas. The ideas that must never be known to his best friend, his life support, his rival, his brother, his partner. Because if John ever let Paul understand the sort of power he had over him, he’d lose everything that ever really mattered. That's his worst fear, and he goes to terrible lengths attempting to ensure it's never realized....But maybe, in the end, John can learn to let it go. Even if that means a life without the person who used to mean everything.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51





	1. “I must have been frightened of the fag in me to get so angry.”

**Author's Note:**

> ((you can skip notes this is basically rambling))
> 
> wow that summary is cringe. just read the title and you'll get the idea.
> 
> Uhh, there's gonna be a lot of quotes and references to real-life quotes because I accidentally researched a lot of this. I have like 5 pages of random notes on this stuff. So, the first chapter title is gonna be an actual quote from John regarding the Bob Wooler incident. Maybe its kind of lazy but I think it gives context (maybe). The quote in the summary is from Paul's 1988 interview on the NBC's "Today" show regarding Albert Goldman’s claims that Lennon had homosexual affairs (in his book "The Lives of John Lennon”. Which both Paul and George Martin hated so you probably shouldn't read it lol). The dialogue framing the first chapter's story is almost verbatim from the same interview. Yep, even that very last line. 
> 
> Also, I'm aware it's kind of ironic to seriously write McLennon literally containing lines from irl Paul that dispute the very idea but,,, idk this is a work of fiction so I'm not saying I actually believe John felt anything similar to this in his real-life...  
> but I mean, who knows?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The incident at Paul's 21st birthday.

> _“The truth is that John was really a great guy. Really, a nice fella. But, you get the sort of stress that the Beatles got… if you’re not that stable … It’s tough.”_

* * *

John Lennon was standing in the middle of a room crowded with everyone he knew and then some. It was Paul's aunt's house, a pleasant place in the middle of suburban Liverpool (which almost sounds like a misnomer). Paul's family was there, too. It was McCartney's twenty-first birthday, after all. It was a strange intermingling of Paul's traditional family and his mates who were like, well, John. He felt as out of place as a drunkard in a convent, which was almost what he was, at the moment. John had a great deal to drink at the party and very little to eat.

He was on his umpteenth ale ever since Paul had left him to fend for himself. It's better to avoid the inevitable embarrassment of a drunk Lennon, especially when surrounded by conservative family. John felt sick, surrounded by gits who kept trying to make polite conversation. George had gone off somewhere with his bird and Ringo left soon afterward. He thought he saw Paul go into the back garden with the redhead and some other pathetic band and a rocker. John told himself that the fresh air was freezing and would only make him be sick, making a mess in front of everyone. He'd better stay here, staring at the wall alone and drinking the home dry. Cynthia was still around there somewhere, but that didn't do anything for him anymore.

He spotted Brian off in another room, mingling effortlessly with the gits. John couldn't help but like him anyway. Brian was the one who reassured the band of their talent and John of his worth. Eppy made things comfortable, even if John knew he was desperate to do something like toss him off. It was almost a love affair, but not quite.

Their time together in Barcelona was telling - that was the sort of thing that worried him. It was his first experience with a homosexual John was conscious was homosexual. John would never bother finding out how lonely and overworked Cyn was when he left only weeks after their son was born. Neither did he realize his mates whispering about them when he and Brian left. Paul once joked that John sucked Eppy off to get his name first in the song credits. That's a story one of John's mates in the pub told him, anyway. But he's been told much worse rumours about himself. The type that left John staring at the ceiling late at night. He left his family weeks after marriage to go on a trip with a queer because he was a bastard and he knew it.

John was staring at the house's pale, flowery wallpaper when Bob Wooler walked up to him with a smug smile on his face. He had helped John's little band to do something worthwhile, a rare sight so far in their careers. The Cavern made half the memories that pushed the band to keep ongoing. John offered a nod at the familiar face.

"How are you, Johnny?" Bob offered his hand and John immediately shook it. "I haven't seen you since before you went on that trip with Brian. How was Spain?"

"'s good to see you, Bob," John said.

"Already drunk as a poet, Lennon? Ay, I'd be too, if I had to show my face after going off with a queer." Bob gestured to Brian standing in a separate crowd, leaning back to get a good look at him. "How was he, John? Did you enjoy it, then?"

John furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't - " he muttered. "I don't know what you're talking about, Bob." He fiddled with the collar on his wrist and let out a scoff disguised as a chuckle.

Now Bob smirked. He tilted his head downwards and raised his eyebrows, trying to meet John's nervous eyes. "It's all over the papers now. Go 'ed, tell me. Did you like it?"

John sputtered and his mouth went dry.

Bob added, "I understand, mate. Brian's a good-looking fella. Go on, look at him." John turned to where Bob had pointed, and he was right. Brian was making someone smile, comforting them. He was glowing underneath the light so much so that John stared. That was a memory from Barcelona. Bob suddenly grabbed John's package and groped it roughly, laughing in his ear, "Does he really get you that fucking randy, John?"

Quickly, John's eyes panicked, not wanting to face Bob or Brian or, really, anybody. As his eyes darted around the room, he and Cynthia made accidental eye contact. Bob was pushed off, cruelly chuckling along the way. John's face grew hotter and he spat, "Don't touch me, you fuckin' divvy."

As Cyn walked towards them, John turned away. He shouldn't have to deal with this. Not here. He tried to find another bottle of drink or someone to talk to or a bird to fool around with. Mainly a bottle of drink, to be honest. Anything to escape this. Cyn started saying something to John about Julian and getting home. She was always trying to help him. It was obvious John needed it in his life. But John didn't hear her. He was busy desperately stealing someone's half-drunk pint and washing out everybody around him.

"Come on John, tell me." Bob stroked the back of John's back. His warmth radiated on the back of John's neck. Cyn watched on.

"Fuck off, Bob. I mean it."

"Tell me about you and Brian, we all know."

"I'm not a queer."

"John, please. Don't listen to him," Cynthia urged.

Bob snorted. "Come on, do you need your 'wife' to come in your defence, John?"

"Mr. Wooler, _no_ \- "

And that was his wife speaking now, trying to politely bicker with Bob to _leave John alone, he's so drunk, please._ Everything slipped out of John's grasp as Bob was trying to charm his wife away, soothing her and reassuring her with lies and jokes. John could swear she was almost in tears, and John wondered if Bob could tell or if Cyn could tell or if -

Then John looked up from his drink and somehow met eyes with Paul, who had made it inside now. He was watching them from across the room, against the purple petunias of the wallpaper. How long? How much could he hear from there? Could Paul see John's flushed face? Or white knuckles due to the tight hold on his drink as he was trying to ground himself wherever he could? Could Paul see John's shaky eyes, trying to forget the memories of Barcelona, at least in front of his mate? John felt he was wearing his shame and Paul was about to kick him out for disgusting everyone around him.

Paul's expression was unreadable, whether from the beer or the glasses John left at home. But he could tell Paul's eyes were wide, his lips parted, and his eyebrows were slightly raised. He reminded him of a boy who had caught mommy kissing Santa Claus - or a boy who'd caught a glimpse of Mummy living in sin with Bobby Dykins while Father was away. This was a glimpse of something he wasn't supposed to see. That he didn't _want_ to see or even realize. Something that disgusted him.

Paul was staring at John now - _really_ looking at him, reminded of all those Hamburg nights - and he didn't turn his gaze because John could swear Paul could tell what was happening. After all, Paul could always tell. Paul looked at him just like this after John said he was getting married. This happened after John drunkenly proposed to toss themselves off together in a dark room. Paul looked at John like this when he came back from Barcelona.

And now Paul was making his way towards him, his stare broken. Paul wasn't supposed to know this way. Paul was never supposed to know. So John turned around, knocked Bob Wooler to the ground, and jumped on him so that John could murder him and his shame.

Bob was screaming bloody murder as John grabbed a metal stick from the fireplace to shut him up. His nose turned to mush and his breathing made horrible sounds but John couldn't hear or feel or even notice it. He couldn't feel Cyn's hand on his shoulders or everyone evacuating the party or Bob's chest seeming to crush under his weight. He didn't let himself realize Paul screaming at him and trying to throw him off. John ignored the fact that _he was doing this in front of his best mate at his birthday party because he was a proper, vile bastard. He's a fucking bastard who's ruining everybody's life because he's a dirty -_

John cut himself off by slamming his fist across Bob's face. Got to shut him up. Got to stop it all. He couldn't tell that a bit of blood had stained the flowery wall of the McCartney's perfect house, or that a glass had smashed. He didn't realize that his vision was so skewed that he barely recognized that what he was hitting was human. He didn't listen to Bob crying, or the blonde crying, or even his own head telling himself that _I can kill this guy._ John kept on hitting, pushing through the gurgled moans of Bob and the fact John read on his face that _if I hit him once more, that was going to be it_. The heat of his face and his chest and the air burned up any thought that told him to stop. John did what he wanted to do for so long: to hit and stop them from speaking about these things ever fucking again.

And when it ended, John was barely aware it was over.

Cyn was driving him home, scared out of her mind. John lashed out again. John was still the same man. But they had a baby now and she left him for months after he hit her and John cried and apologized and promised to be a good man after every incident. Cynthia would always believe him. Now John was stirring in the back seat, his head bobbing weakly, not looking at her or even acknowledging her. He only muttered lowly, "He called me a bloody queer, so I knocked his ribs in."

He was only faintly aware of Bob's state. Something bad had happened to Bob's ribs and his eye, and John knew that _oh God, I did that to him_. He remembered that Bob staggered out, blood down his face, and said, "Get Brian Epstein." Everyone ushered to him and glared at the drunken attacker, the freak, the queer. John was pulled by some of the men there to Cynthia's car. And Paul rushed out of the scene, holding hands with the nice redhead. John saw Paul's figure pushing through the crowd, and for some reason, he wanted to find Paul's eyes for _something_ \- sympathy or hate or even a fucking nod - but Paul didn't look at John.

And John was pushed into Cynthia's car so he could get out of everybody's life and let them forget the awful night. The night that was _his_ fault. He was probably going to lose the record deal now, John thought half-consciously. At least, he should. Brian would drop the band and he'd be locked up like the fuck up he was. Oh, the band - they'd hate John for stringing them _this_ far along only to leave them with such a mess. Paul would forget about him or _want_ to forget about him. Everything they had, everything they worked for would be destroyed. John would be remembered as the fairy who ruined Paul's twenty-first and _Paul would hate him_. John's chest suddenly ached and his face contorted. Everything that was wrong with him was crashing down on his life because that's _exactly_ what he deserves. The last time Paul looked him in the eyes would be when Paul realized his best mate was a fucking queer.

* * *

> _“... It’s tough. Now, if you look at John for his stability, you’ve got to look at him. _
> 
> _“You gotta look at the guy whose father left home when he was three. He was brought up by his auntie and his uncle - his auntie was living but the uncle died._
> 
> _“And then, his mother - who used to live nearby - was visiting one night. She left, she got run over by a drunken policeman and got killed stone dead when he was sixteen._
> 
> _“So, y’know, on top of all of that it’s remarkable he was as straight as he was, really.”_


	2. “I got a message on acid that you should destroy your ego, and I did.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John only ever took LSD in the studio once, accidentally. Typical of his character, Paul takes care of him. His affection, as impenetrable as it seems, cannot save John from his own desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((reminder that my notes are always rambly and skippable)) 
> 
> I tried to revise the tags on this because they were a mess. They still are, kind of.
> 
> The “quotes” at the beginning and end are taken from ‘Many Years From Now’ by Barry Miles but I’ve heavily edited, cut, and rearranged them, so they’ve changed meaning a bit. The John title quote is from Lennon Remembers by Jann S Wenner.
> 
> Is this a slow update? I’m not sure of the usual update time on AO3. If it is, sorry! I had to edit and rewrite quite a bit because… my first drafts are always bad and this was kinda hard. I also went on way too long trying to find more info on the irl event but there's only, like, 5 quotes on it. PS John never comments irl on Paul bringing him home that night and I was like bruh where's your opinion on it??
> 
> George Martin is mostly referred to by last name and George Harrison mostly by his first (or his nickname, Geo) because Martin was the Fifth Beatle and George was at LEAST the fourth so he gets my bias. Hope it doesn’t distract too much. I tried to make a balanced descriptor when I first mentioned them and used the distinct names after that.
> 
> Also, I apologize if this new chapter isn’t where you thought the story was going? I say that because I feel like I didn’t stress enough that the chapters are independent and non-chronological, so there isn’t a linear plot. But, the chapters are supposed to be the preface/context/reason to the last chapter I plan to write (which I haven’t revealed is about, but you can probably already guess). I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m pretentiously hyping up that last chapter too much, it’s basically just about a decision and the chapters being released right now are hopefully supposed to make you go like, “huh, considering everything that kinda makes sense that they did that” and it ~enriches the narrative~ and all that jazz. Like, it’s very loose. This chapter also doesn’t have a big action-like climax like the last, it’s a bit more dreamlike (hopefully). I wanted to go with “dreamy” but it may have gone more “drivel”. Kinda went off course 2nd chapter in.  
> I wanted to clarify so anyone who still bothered to click on this wasn’t *too* disappointed. Enjoy.

> _“It’s been coming for a long time. It’s often the best way, without thinking about it too much._ _Just_ _slip into it._
> 
> _“You dissolve into each other. But that’s what we did, round about that time, that’s what we did a lot. It was very tiring, wasted me, always wasted me. But [I thought] ‘I’ve got to do it, for my well-being’.”_

* * *

John Lennon made it easy for you to wish you'd never met him. Especially if you were Paul McCartney and you were running up to the rooftop to save the man from falling to his death.

The absence of John’s vacant stare on him in the control room should’ve tipped Paul off sooner, added to the fact he stopped hearing clumsy jokes tumbling from the corner. But it took until George Martin stepped back in from nowhere, notifying the band that _John will be back in a moment. He’s looking at the stars on the roof._ Now, John was certainly getting more eccentric, but he wasn’t so strange as to stop in the middle of a recording session to look at a boring British sky. Not while in a proper state of mind, at least. The realization that John must not be sober quickly brought the realization that a tripping John should not be left alone on a roof thirty feet high without rails. Which is why Paul is where he is now: crashing through the roof’s doors to save a man on LSD from probable death or injury.

But John was found perfectly safe. There was no danger. John felt as safe as a baby in their mother’s arms as he stood against the very edge, teasing the drop. The sky looked too fantastic to take a single step back. Leaning into the door frame, Paul watched him for a moment. The cool wind combed his hair and his ragged breaths were smoothed by the stillness. He was as fascinated by John as John was by the night.

“Johnny?” Paul spoke as softly as the breeze. He took a tentative step forward, careful not to disturb. But John was untouchable, unflinching. So, Paul let out a tense breath, putting his hands in his pockets as he finished his strides. There was no danger. When he was an inch away, close enough to recognize the way soft brown hair curled upon his head, Paul didn’t pull John away from the edge. Instead, he took his place beside him.

“Aren’t they fantastic?” John asked in child-like wonder, turning his head to Paul. There was a hope in his eyes, shining through his old-fashioned glasses. There was an epiphany that, when remembered in two-days time, would mean nothing. Right here and right now, John was convinced that life was beautiful.

Paul paused to explore John’s glassy eyes. Despite himself and despite the knowledge that by all accounts the sky was ordinary, a smile spread across his face like butter. Without ever having to stare at the stars, he answered, “Of course, John.”

Turning back to the sky, John embraced the soft warmth radiating from his chest. He let himself believe that the connection he had long missed was somehow remade. They stood there for a long while and John gently swayed against the other’s arm, unaware, like a human tuning fork. Paul took his time before gently tugging at John’s shirt and saying, “You’re goin’ to get cold, y’know. Let’s get inside.”

George Harrison and Martin, the only ones still left working, perked their ears in the control room as John and Paul made their way onto the studio floor. John was still caught up in his universe, and Paul was trying to ease him out. It was hard to hear any reassurance when his eyes were busy roaming the floors, then the equipment, and then the crew above. It was as if it were Abbey Road Studio’s first reveal.

John made his way to the control room by deliberately double-checking his steps up the staircase, occasionally braving to look ahead before continuing with the same intensity. It got better when he remembered Paul was right behind him, holding him up with a strong hand on his back. Martin watched the curious sight, deciding that it was just another one of John’s quirks that he’d discovered too late. Geo leaned back in the chair beside him, smirking.

When John finally opened the control room’s door, he stood there timidly with all eyes on him. Paul squeezed inside behind him imperceptibly. A dizzying array of buttons, switches, sliders, and doo-hickeys held John’s fascination as the proper thing to say became a haze. The ability to express himself became as dry as his mouth.

Finally, after a glance at the sky, he managed, “Wow, look at that.” Paul and Martin realized the statement’s anti-profoundness when they craned their necks upwards to see… a ceiling. John still stood stiffly, wondering if that was the thing he meant to say.

But George Harrison didn’t bother looking up. The silent connection he had with John ever since their first horrifyingly amazing trip together was enough to explain everything. Geo smiled when they made eye contact and John was zapped with the realization that _oh, I must have taken acid._ It wasn’t a great revelation, as John blurted simply, “Well, I can’t go on. I feel strange and I have to go.”

It was interesting to face the three reactions. George held onto his smirk, watching without a word. Martin let out a slow sigh, trying to understand the inner mechanisms of John Lennon. The producer's innocence hadn’t caught up with the Beatles’ increasing adventurousness. But Paul looked at him as one would at a child who’d made a mess of his food as if he were a helpless little boy. _Maybe_ _he’d understand me,_ John thought lazily, _if he bothered to try acid like the rest of us. He could finally float down to our level._

The four decided to continue to try and record on the studio floor, after much convincing for John. Making what felt like his second-ever trip down the Abbey Road stairs, John relished in every creak of the steps. When he finally joined the rest at the base, he found that he wasn't being led to a similar warmth that he felt on the rooftop. Rather, John was handed a colourful Rickenbacker, a mic, and nonsensical lyrics scrawled onto a messy page. The others’ explanations didn’t help him to sing a single right note.

“You’ll have to do it and I’ll just stay and watch,” John stepped back from the mic after Martin called the Beatles to stop for the fifth time. He held his hands up as if he was caught back in Hamburg in a dirty alley and shook his head, continuing tentatively, “Is.. is that alright?

Although the rest went on without complaint, John felt an uneasiness creeping up from his toes. It became uncomfortable to watch them work as if John was invading their privacy and forgetting that they were playing some of his own writings.

About twenty minutes later, John piped up again in his most polite voice, “Is this alright?” He was answered with some overly kind confirmations that yes, John was welcome to sit there and watch. Geo was the only one who didn't coddle him, cracking a joke that didn't completely make sense to John but made him laugh nonetheless. His anxiety subdued for a moment, before beginning to bubble up again.

Less than an hour later, John interrupted with a frantic, “Are you sure it’s alright?” They assured him again and sat him down, but it didn’t do much good. The creative presence of John was torn down by fervent apologies for nothing.

“It’s useless without a capable John,” Martin sighed. “We’ll break early for the night.”

Paul opened Abbey Road’s doors, Geo and Martin already departed. He found John bouncing on his toes on the edge of the concrete stairs going up to the studio. From the vantage point, John looked around the streets, face contorted in thought. London was still quiet and dark, hiding the way back to a spot in bed next to Cynthia in their family home.

“Macca, I told the driver to come, didn't I? Where is he?” John huffed, his voice a shade uneven.

“You scheduled him to come when we were supposed to finish the session, and we were supposed to pull an all-nighter. He won’t be here for hours,” Paul tiredly made his way past John, onto the sidewalk. “Don’t drive yourself home, you’re in quite a state. That's why I don't take the rubbish, look what it's done to you!”

Behind him, John nodded without a word. The solution seemed easy enough: Just wait for the driver to come. It made enough sense at the time.

When Paul glanced back and read that on the other man’s face, he groaned. Of course that wasn’t going to happen. Before he could refuse, John was roughly grabbed and pulled along for the short walk to Paul’s Cavendish home.

John stumbled in Paul’s living room, similar to how he’s been stumbling along all night. They hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, content with the moonlight pouring from the large window on the far wall. “I think you stole some of me gran’s knick-knacks,” he called to the unseen Paul, who’d gone into another room. The long, glass vase of yellow daffodils lifted from the mantle dirtied John as he turned it in his hands. The stem seemed to bend between the water and the air. He knew that it was just some sort of refraction of light, but a spot in his brain nagged of something fantastic yet gleefully incomprehensible. The science teacher at Quarry Bank once tried to explain it to the class using all the proper words. John was busy watching the flower for the flower.

Paul’s entrance back into the homely living room was not acknowledged by John. He had just rediscovered the joy in watching the flower for the flower. Paul looked at him in that way again, as if John were a simple child and Paul were the adult. John shrunk at this misunderstanding, determined to change it tonight.

“D’you think this flower’s bent? The stem, I mean?” John held the vase up and spun it for effect as he found his way, sitting on a quaint coach.

“No, John,” Paul bit back a rude smile.

“Looks it though, doesn't it?” John stuck the vase between them on a littered coffee table. The vase revolved in his fingers as he added, “But any gardener would tell you the water’s… well, it’s watering it, obviously. It's letting it grow. There's no real harm done. Just _looks_ like it has a bad effect, is all.”

“Hm,” Paul wanted to roll his eyes.

“But to the untrained eye…” John went on lowly. “Let’s say _you,_ Paul, you or me. To the average idiot, wouldn’t they be too afraid of what the water seems to be doing to the flower to realize all the good it does? I mean, it _looks_ a little funny, but you look at the way it’s colours have all this great _vibrance_ and psychedelia _…_ The water makes it seem to bend, but it also makes it grow, doesn’t it? It’s a little scary at first, a little mind-numbing, but you’ve _got to get over it,_ Paul. You’ve got to accept it and embrace it. At some point, anyway.”

There was a silence as Paul tittered, amused. John clicked his tongue and reached into his trouser pockets, throwing a metal pillbox onto the coffee table. Its occupants were made a bit too obvious by the psychedelic images painted on the cover. The hazy point or high metaphor or trippy comparison was thrown into the air, and Paul didn’t see much but rambling. He was too busy lighting a fag and sitting on the sofa to bother looking up at the clatter of John’s actions. There was no need to. That’s how he felt, anyway.

There was a chuckle from behind Paul's cigarette smoke, saying, “You don’t know what you’re saying, you knob.”

“You don’t understand what I _mean_ , Paul... You’ve not understood me for a while now,” John murmured, melting onto the floor, sitting in that peculiarly cross-legged way he often did.

“That’s not true,” Paul leaned in to find John’s avoidant eyes. “We’ve just written an album together, remember? You can’t do that with someone you don’t know, can you?”

John hummed in discontent, head in hand. It was no use fighting Paul. Paul held so much sense and responsibility and attentiveness that it sometimes felt like trying to argue with a professor. And John knew he was almost always wrong, anyway. As much as he wished him away, John still felt a watchful eye drilling into the side of his head.

The thick silence that enveloped them sickened Paul to his stomach. The ticks coming from the grandfather clock were the only ones making conversation. John fiddled his fingers and refused to lift his eyes from the floor, so the two drifted further and further apart.

Another sip of water drowned Paul's worries before he stood, fished out one of the larger doses from John’s pillbox, and swallowed it in a gulp. It was all so accidental and delicate, Paul seemingly moving as a man possessed. John didn't dare breathe, so as not to break the fragile balance. Taking his place beside John for the second time this night, Paul copied the other’s body and sat cross-legged, so close that they were practically on top of each other. It only became believable when John turned and found Paul’s kind eyes staring back at him. The silence seemed to turn to a harmonic hum and they finally faced each other, naked and vulnerable. Paul’s never felt his heartbeat melt with another’s like this before.

It was unclear if Paul was only hallucinating the stars in John’s eyes. Not that it mattered. All his worries turned to dust, if only for a moment.

A moment turned into many, and the hour hand of the clock moved faster than it ever had before. They’ve been staring at each other absurdly long now, locked there by a merciless force. The magnetism between them caused John’s hands to shake, trying to resist from immediately pulling Paul into him, to finally hold each other. He knew better than to reach for Paul, only allowing himself to brush against the other. They sat there for _almost_ enough time to grant John life-long euphoria, but not quite. He’d need an eternity more of Paul to be satisfied. It was an indescribable, unattainable pleasure.

Staring at Paul was like staring at the morning sky. It was breathing fresh air, it was tasting crisp fruit. It was something John hadn’t done in a long time. Paul’s eyes contained the universe, and John didn’t need anything else. He walked in and explored every crevasse, every curve, every reflection, and every bump because it was all-encompassing and all-important.

At some point, Paul broke the silence, saying, “When does it end?” His voice came from somewhere far off, his mouth out of focus. John was reminded of where he was.

“Depends,” John spoke deeply, delicately. A cryptic smile crawled onto his face. “For hours, at least. Hours and hours.”

Paul’s slow nod and anxious eyes made John feel a bit lighter. He’s finally letting go of a bit of that dreaded responsibility, he thought. They're finally getting to be curious, half-hazardous children again, which hadn't happened for a while. Not since before they realized they were a phenomena, at least.

Of course, Paul will always take that responsibility a bit better than John, who wanted to run away and drop it like a hot pan. John felt a bit powerless beside him, a bit more squat. That's not how it used to be. During the dance they had, it seemed that John’s toes were always being stepped on. Paul _knew_ how to dance, though. He could do it with a thousand birds at three in the morning, but touching his best mate’s hand and meaning it just didn’t come as easily.

John was about to grab Paul’s wrist to pull him into his own universe. Before he had the chance, Paul stood and stretched his neck awkwardly, consciously. He said sheepishly, “I’ve got to walk into the garden, for my well-being.” John felt transported into the middle of an Arctic night and Paul pushed open the sliding door, stepping into his familiar but John’s unknown. The latter sat there, pushing his knees into his chest, back to the garden. It was a bit shameful to already wonder when Paul will come back in. He cursed himself for being so helpless and surrendering to someone who just left, even for only a second. The world was directionless without Paul’s eyes.

John turned his attention around the living room again, dizzy from all the eye contact. It felt unnervingly just out of the realm of familiarity. In Mimi’s house, there’d be small, endearing trinkets strewn all over the home. As strict as she was, in some ways, Mimi was as funny as John. Eccentrically painted china, unknowable wooden figures, and enigmatic paintings mixed with the standard, suburban design of the building and its furniture. Then, the globby Sgt. Peppers poster, painted especially for the upcoming album, would come into sight. Sgt Peppers was Paul's idea in the first place, of course. It reminded John that Paul owns every inch of this house. It felt as though Paul was controlling every floorboard and every edge of plaster, which John was intruding on. Burying his head between his knees, John screwed his eyes tight, waiting for the return of a warm presence.

When paisley shapes just began to swirl into his dark vision, John heard the glass sliding open again and felt the night wind rush around him. He waited until he could lift his eyes again, for footsteps to come in and kneel in front of him and comfort him. Instead, Paul’s stare on the down-trodden John made the room unbearably stuffy rather than safe. John waited. There was a throb of the stars. A pulse of flowing blood. A beat of silence. Then, a thud of the door shutting again.

John became hyper-aware of his state: A heavy breath out of the nose. Dry mouth. Shaking, but only as roughly as the grass sways. At the very least, John could still clearly see the outline of his shoes in the darkness. So he stayed frozen, waiting for the only knight he’s ever known. He became aware of how alone he was.

Eventually, Paul would come back inside. Only for moments. Not to resume what they had before. They’d sit around, moving like slugs, trying to explore all the shapes in their sight. Across from each other, not at each other. Paul stretched as if he was trying to contact everything in the house. John sat closed off and tight to himself, like a coil. Soon enough, Paul’d excuse himself and step into the garden. John didn’t turn and look into the glass to see what the other was doing, knowing it’d be silly to be that desperate. There were no acknowledgments at Paul’s comings and goings. He’d dissolve into and out of the scene and John would become emptier every time.

It was hard to distinguish between the times John felt loved and the times he felt distant. Often, Paul would sit beside him, _right_ beside him, only _just_ touching, and something would flow between them. John would feel a little less cold and he’d come closer to saying what he needed, “ _Touch me._ ” Paul was tired, but he was there for him. That is, until he wasn’t and he had to go excuse himself to the garden. It was completely understandable. In the garden, there was no underlier and Paul didn’t need to feel as if he were about to confront _something._ Yet John still felt like a girl left at the doorstep without a goodnight’s kiss. After an inconclusive amount of time, Paul would come in and sit _just_ out of focus and their wavelengths would begin to overlap. The whole thing would start again and John was too distracted to make it into anything more.

Once, on another indefinite cycle, Paul came in and sat cross-legged right in front of him. There was no reason why, just as there was no reason why John’s breath hitched in his throat. He couldn’t help but let it happen and stare back into the abyss. It felt good just to see him. Superficially, of course. _Paul_ is the beauty in life. Not the stars, which John abandoned hours ago. Lifetimes ago.

“You’re beautiful, y’know,” John simpered after noticing the way Paul's lashes curled above his eyes. It was one of the clearest things that were said in the hours of quiet and occasional murmuring. It was one of the most transparent things John still needed to work up the courage to admit. “Used to tease you about it. You, being the Cute Beatle. I used to get jealous of it, of all the birds you’d pull ‘n all the love you got. But, they were right about you. I understand it now.”

“ _Hm_.” Paul’s mouth barely opened at all as he said, “You still do. You still tease.”

John laughed airily, despite himself. He didn’t mind that Paul just said almost nothing in the face of a hefty confession, albeit an obvious one. There was a clouded vision of a boyish face childishly hiding behind a mustache, responsibility, fame, and success. But he would _always_ reveal himself when he laughed. It made John's world shine. That’s why John didn’t mind when Paul smiled back at him, glossy-eyed and non-processing, unchanging. There was a love that John felt bubbling up within him, tearing out the things that used to make him hesitate.

It was a love that didn’t _need_ to hurt. But of course, like many things in his life, it often did. Perhaps because of his own doing. Sometimes it left John floating on cloud nine, feeling as if life was beautiful… until the trip was over and John was back on Earth, the stars gone from the sky. He’d glance over and Paul would be staring at him, confused because he never lifted his feet off the ground.

But John started to believe that Paul had finally caught up to him, just now. He believed that someone had finally seen life as he did. It was so perfect that John didn’t stop himself from gripping one of Paul’s wrists, pulling him towards him a millimetre at a time. Their breaths were intermingling and hot. There was more intimacy there than with any girl either had ever picked up at 1 AM. Paul’s eyes widened and started bouncing back and forth between John’s face and his own helpless wrist. This was ignored. John let his body lean forward and close his eyes, their noses bumping, his thoughts so clear and confident under Paul’s alluring spell.

Then he felt Paul’s wrist tug back, very gently. Gently wanting to escape John.

When John opened his eyes, jumping back to reality, Paul wasn’t facing him. He was staring at the carpet, silent, his lips pulled into a tight line. It was impossible to read his downturned eyes. John wanted to mumble an apology. Nothing came out. It would do no good to try and contact Paul, as they were now a million miles apart.

Sitting there in the room that’d just turned freezing, the two pretended the other wasn't there. The more John thought of it, the less he could breathe. John didn’t allow himself to do as he needed, not anymore. That would mean doing something stupid, like saying, “ _Please, I’m sorry.”_ or “ _Please, don’t leave me._ ” or “ _What did I do wrong?_ ” What was Paul supposed to say to that? John had snapped out of his delusions. It felt terrible.

“Well, I think I’d better get to bed now,” Paul whispered after some time. This sentence made John’s world stop turning. It confirmed that he _did_ ruin _everything._ That his desires were destructive, unearned.

As Paul picked himself off the ground, their thoughts became dissonant. Paul handled himself carefully as if every limb were made of lead. His legs lifted him up the steps to his bedroom, going further into the inky darkness, further from John. John followed the pinpoint of Paul's soul, bobbing up and down upon the stairs, leaving him behind. It was a deliberate process. He waited, foolishly, for Paul to turn and say, “You’re goin’ to get lonely, y’know. Let’s get to bed.” But Paul left him, muttering something about the guest room. Something else important missed John’s ears as he was busy trying to bear the steadily lifeless atmosphere. Those four or five or six-hundred hours they spent together had crumbled.

“Paul?” John said, and the creaking of the steps stopped. “You won’t sleep.”

From midway up the stairs, Paul said, “...I know that. I’ve still got to go to bed, John.” The creaks hadn’t resumed, not yet. John swallowed thickly. What could be said to get Paul to turn around? It was true that they’d better stop. That _was_ a lot of fun, now Paul knew he had to go and sleep this off. That was the difference: Paul knew when to stop, but John wanted to hang on to it all for as long as he could, even if it was long gone.

“Paul,” John’s feeble voice echoed through the halls. “Don’t go. I think… I think I need you. Not just for tonight. I think I… ” The end of his sentence refused to come out of his mouth.

Paul hesitated, believing _this is_ _just_ _a hallucination._ John didn’t finish, John didn’t stand up. John did nothing that could be construed as concrete or sincere.

“John, you don’t _need_ me, you never did. I’ve got to sleep this off, it’s wasted me,” a far-off voice answered. ”I think you’ve got to sleep it off, too. It’s getting to you.” He sounded drained and exhausted, matching the mood.

And then in an instant, John was alone. Alone, because that was his natural state. His proper state. It was no surprise anymore, considering all John does. He took the kindness Paul offered and he twisted it into something he _knew_ he didn’t deserve.

When Paul came downstairs in the late morning, there was a boy unconscious on his couch. There was a sense of normalcy. It was easy to pretend it was just like any other lazy morning because Paul thought of _only_ the morning. The boy radiated innocence. As long as John doesn't stand and try to explain and excuse everything, it'd be okay.

Paul knew he shouldn’t let John stay much longer, yet he began to brew tea for the two anyway. Paul knew that he should stray away from the man, but he set down a mug and began to shake John awake nonetheless. It was always obvious it'd be best to stray from John. That never stopped Paul before.

John heard a soft “ _Good morning”_ before he could process anything else. Opening his eyes with a smile, he saw his best friend standing over him. Safety. The night before had not yet set into his mind. For now, it was calm and it was good. _We’re better off this way,_ Paul thought, choosing every word. _If we_ _just_ _forget it ever happened, we’ll be okay_. John made it easy for you to wish you'd never met him, but you could ignore that thought. It just meant ignoring a part of John as well.

* * *

> _“There's something disturbing about it. You ask yourself, 'How do you come back from it? How do you then lead a normal life after that?' And the answer is, you don't.”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I hope that the ending worked. Since in the first chapter John was scared Paul hated him, I wanted a similar “John does something bad” plot except Paul’s affection is actually reaffirmed (for now). Although... there’s still a problem with the relationship. And I plan to blow that problem up in the next chapter, if my writing goes to plan.  
> I hope you enjoyed that, and if you didn’t, critique as you’d like. The comments on the last one, few as they were, really made my ass stop procrastinating and I had to try to update in a timely manner.

**Author's Note:**

> Critique and corrections and comments are always encouraged!
> 
> tumblr: kreekey.tumblr.com


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